Torn
by ChemiToo
Summary: The year is 1861, and America is late for a meeting with England...again. But when the older nation heads over to his house to chew him out, England finds his little brother in bad shape. Some language and England being an awesome big brother.
1. Chapter 1

America rolled out of bed and scrambled to find his clothing. He had slept in—again. He scowled, grabbing his trousers from where he had hastily thrown them on the floor the night before. If he was late this time, England would have a conniption.

He stumbled into his trousers and threw on a shirt. He had misplaced his pocket watch, but judging by the light coming in through his window, it was probably around 10:30.

"Pah, I can still make it," he chuckled to himself, buttoning his shirt and tucking it into his pants. He looked down, cursing under his breath. He had a tie on before he went to bed, right? Must be around somewhere…

He bent over to look under his bed when a wave of dizziness washed over him. He grabbed his mattress, clutching a fistful of his blankets as he waited for it to pass. His back throbbed angrily as he closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing. This had been happening for a while, now. All of a sudden he'd feel light-headed, and a stabbing pain would shoot up his spine. It usually passed quickly, though, and America had done well at ignoring it so far. Lately the episodes were becoming more frequent, and though he'd never admit it aloud, it was starting to worry him.

The climate was turbulent among his people nowadays. Rumors of war were constantly on the tip of every tongue at meetings, though America didn't need to hear it to know that something horrible was looming on the horizon. Between the unrest over states' rights, blatant economic issues, and, America noted with a cringe, the issue of slavery, his people had spiraled into turbulence. All America could do was pray that the people of his nation saw reason and stopped doing things that were clearly wrong, stopped hurting one another, but he feared that the only way for them to reach any compromise would be from coming to blows. After all, he thought with a bitter smile, wasn't that how he became independent in the first place?

He slowly stood upright as the dizziness passed, then made his way to his dresser. He was fairly certain he had another tie in the top drawer; it was easier than scrounging around for his other one. He paused, looking at himself in the mirror. God, he looked horrible. He had been doing nothing but sleep lately, but he still had dark circles beneath his eyes. Not to mention he looked white as a sheet.

"Come on, man, pull it together," he coached himself as he rummaged through the top drawer and retrieved a simple black tie. He put it on and donned his glasses, dashing over to the coat hanger beside his wardrobe. He retrieved his vest and morning coat and ran out into the hallway. The meeting with England wasn't until 11:00, right? So, he reasoned as he finished getting dressed and slid down the bannister of the stairwell, he would probably would arrive right on time.

He smirked; he wouldn't give that limey bastard the satisfaction of having him skid into the meeting room late. Not this time, anyway. He unlocked the front door and started to head out, then stopped when he realized he had forgotten his hat.

"Whoops," he muttered as he backed up to retrieve it. Oh, England would have had a field day with that one. "_What kind of gentleman forgets his hat?" "Nobody is going to take you seriously!"_ _"Blah, blah, blah—"_

America gasped as searing pain suddenly shot up his spine. He fell to his knees, vision going dark and head pounding. It was unbearable, like he was being split in-two…

He hit the floor with a thud, glasses askew as the room swam. He reached out toward the front door, his quivering hand grasping for help that wouldn't come.

"Help…" he wheezed as everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

England frowned as he angrily flipped his pocket watch closed. America was late—again. He sighed, cursing under his breath as he rose from his seat. All he needed was twenty minutes. Twenty damned minutes of the younger nation's time, and he'd be out of his hair. He just wanted to talk about trade, that was all. He had sent ambassadors, all of whom America had ignored, so the only way to get his fickle attention was to show up in-person. Which, he thought as he kicked the chair backwards in anger, apparently wasn't enough, either. The chair scraped against the floor with an indignant shriek and hit the wall behind it with a loud thunk.

"I-is everything all right, Sir?" one of the American guards asked uncertainly from outside of the meeting room.

"No, not really," England snapped, "Where the hell is America?" he demanded.

The guard jumped, looking quite terrified.

"I haven't seen him, Sir," he squeaked.

"He's _late_," England hissed, his eyes narrowing into slits.

"I'm terribly sorry about that, Sir," the guard apologized, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously, "If you want, I can send word for him-"

"Oh no, I'll do it," England interrupted as he sped off down the hallway, "probably still in his bloody pajamas," he snarled as the guard called for him to wait, but England was already heading out into the street.

When he got his hands on that miserable little ingrate, he'd be sure he was never late again.

* * *

He rapped on the front door, frowning up at it as if it were staring at him.

"America!" he called, "Did you forget a certain _meeting_ you had this morning?"

As expected, there was no answer. England drew a deep breath, then proceeded to pound on the front door with both fists..

"Damn it, America! I will NOT BE IGNORED!" he bellowed between thuds, "I suggest you get out here immediately, or I will BREAK IN, SO HELP ME!"

England paused, folding his arms and tapping his foot impatiently. He counted down from ten…no response from within the house.

"All right, that's it!" he declared, rearing his foot up to stomp the door down and stopping himself. What kind of gentleman was he, not even testing the doorknob first? He tsked; America _would_ be stupid enough to leave his damned door unlocked. He turned the handle and was only mildly surprised to find that it offered no resistance.

"Damn it, America, how many times have I told you-" he scolded as he swung the door open, then froze. America was sprawled out on the floor, mere feet from the front door, unconscious.

"Oh my God—Alfred?!" England breathed, anger completely forgotten as he sped over to him. The younger nation was lying on his side, arm stretched out toward the door. England knelt over him and pressed his face into Alfred's chest, frantically listening for a heartbeat. He sighed in relief as a dull thudding sound and Alfred's soft breathing met his ears. At least he was alive, but what the hell had happened?

"Alfred?" he called, tapping the man's face; he was very pale. Too pale, "Alfred, wake up,"

No response.

"Come on, Alfred," England said, moving to roll him onto his back and check him for signs of trauma. That was when he noticed that the back of Alfred's shirt was soaked. England recoiled, examining his palm; it was mottled with red simply from touching Alfred's jacket.

"Blood?" he muttered as he frantically began undressing the other man. Alfred mumbled something, but didn't wake up. England cautiously rolled him onto his stomach and peeled the bloody clothes off of his back. England's stomach plummeted; a nasty gash ran down America's back, crisscrossing over his spine in a jagged red line. It looked as if he had been hit with a machete, for God's sake—

England frowned, looking up suspiciously. If America had been attacked, his assailant might still be in the house. He looked back down at America's injury; if England didn't tend to it immediately, he risked infection, or worse. He balled up America's shirt and pressed it onto the wound, hoping it would slow the bleeding down long enough for him to gather supplies.

"Hold on, Alfred," he said as he dashed into the kitchen. Attackers be damned, he wasn't about to let Alfred bleed out on the floor while he scoured his massive house for an intruder. He threw open America's liquor cabinet and grabbed a bottle of vodka (from Russia, perhaps? Why was he even asking himself that?). He rummaged through the kitchen cabinets and grabbed as many dishtowels as he could find, then dashed back into the foyer.

"Bandages," he muttered, running up the staircase and trying to find a bathroom. Damn it, there had to be one up here—

"There!" he said to himself as he flung the bathroom door open and began rummaging through the cabinet. Luckily, two rolls of gauze were in the corner of the cabinet, forgotten. He ran back down the steps, taking two at a time. America hadn't moved, and the shirt England had pressed over him was already soaked through.

"Shit," he hissed as he stumbled back to Alfred's side and fell to his knees. He set the materials down and fished around for the needle in the lining of his vest. Damn it, he knew it was there—he always brought a needle and thread along, just in case…

"Got it!" he said triumphantly, taking the pre-threaded needle and dunking it into the bottle of vodka. He tied the string around the neck of the bottle and sloppily poured some of the liquid onto one of the dishtowels. He bit his lip, taking another clean towel and applying pressure to Alfred's back. Alfred muttered nonsense as he haphazardly flopped his arms about.

"You're going to be all right, Alfred," England promised, reapplying pressure repeatedly until the bleeding slowed enough for him to catch up. He grabbed the vodka-soaked towel and gently cleaned the wound. The instant it touched Alfred's flesh, he cried out in pain.

"Alfred?" England asked hopefully as he stole a look at America's face. His eyes were open, but it wasn't clear if he was actually there or not. England frowned, returning to the task at hand.

"I'm sorry," England muttered as he worked and Alfred twitched and howled in agony, "I have to clean it, or you'll get infected," he continued as Alfred whimpered, muttering incoherently. It tore at England to see him like this. Whoever was responsible, he'd kill him. _Horribly_—England would see to it himself.

He retrieved the sterile needle from the bottle and hurriedly began stitching up the gash on Alfred's back. Alfred hissed, retracting his arm and balling his hand into a fist. Alfred leaned over worriedly; America's face was contorted in agony, eyes clenched closed and forehead soaked with sweat.

"Alfred," England called, taking his hand and gently touching the side of Alfred's face. America's eyes snapped open and surveyed him like a feral beast. England jumped; the look in his eyes was terrifying, like blue fire. "Alfred, you are badly hurt, and I have to stitch you up," England explained calmly, "It's…going to hurt, a bit, but I'll go as fast as I can. Okay?"

America blinked, and England saw the slightest nod of his head as he set his jaw. _"Okay."_

England returned to his task, taking the needle and deftly closing up the flayed flesh. Alfred twitched and cried out; England wagered he was clenching his teeth hard enough to break them, but he couldn't stop now.

"Nearly there," he said absently, "Just a few more,"

He paused as America suddenly went limp.

"A-Alfred?" England stammered worriedly, "Bollocks," he hissed, wanting to make sure he was all right, but the wound was more than halfway closed. He had to finish and stop the blood flow. Then, he could check on him.

He cursed under his breath with every stitch, wiping his hands on his pants to remove enough blood so that he could work until, finally, the wound was closed. He leaned over; Alfred was unconscious, mouth agape as he breathed quietly.

"Just hang in there," England coached, relieved that the younger nation was still breathing, "The worst part's already over,"

He reached down and retrieved one of the rolls of gauze, then set about the task of wrapping America's entire chest and abdomen. He went through almost an entire roll, but managed to finish the task.

"There," he declared, wiping his brow, "All done,"

Alfred didn't answer. England grabbed a fresh dishtowel and gently dabbed America's face with it, noting how he still looked horribly pale. England didn't think he had lost enough blood to be fatal, but it'd been close. He shuddered; if he had gotten there any later…

"…thur…?"

England jumped, leaning down so he could hear him better.

"Yes, I'm here," he responded.

"Arthur?" America asked, his voice barely audible. He cracked an eye open, gazing at England tiredly, "Am I…okay?"

"Yes, you are," England said, managing a weak grin, "You're going to be just fine. I patched you up myself,"

"Oh, okay…" America breathed, closing his eye, "That's good,"

England watched him fall asleep again and stood up. He was literally a bloody mess, as was Alfred's floor.

"All right, then," he sighed, putting his hands on his hips, "Now to get this straightened up,"

* * *

It had taken a while, but England had finally managed to carry America into the adjacent room and carefully set him on his large sofa. He had gathered blankets from one of the beds upstairs and wrapped them around the younger nation to make sure he didn't catch a chill.

In the meantime, England had taken the liberty of cleaning up the mess in the foyer as well as washing himself up and borrowing one of America's shirts and a pair of trousers. He walked back into what he assumed was America's living room and put his hand on his forehead. Warmer than he was earlier, and not as clammy. His color looked better as well, which soothed England's nerves a bit.

He sank into an armchair opposite of the sofa tiredly, rubbing his eyes. While he was glad that America was going to pull through, he couldn't help but wonder what the hell had happened to him. Sure, he was careless, but whoever had hit him had done it while his shirt was off—the fabric wasn't torn.

"But that doesn't make any sense," he muttered.

He looked up as knocking came from the front door. He hesitated, stealing a look at Alfred before rising to open it.

"Coming, coming," England grumbled as the pounding on the front door intensified. He noted absently that locking that damned door had been a good plan as he cracked it open. Two American soldiers in full military garb nearly fell into America's foyer in their haste.

"S-sir!" one of them blurted, thrusting a sheet of paper into England's face. England leaned back to avoid getting a bloody nose, "There's urgent news from-!"

The man paused as if seeing England for the first time, retracting the paper and blinking at him in confusion.

"Can I...help you gents?" England asked awkwardly.

"You're not Mister America," the other soldier stated as if bewildered.

"No, I'm Mister England," he sighed, "America's badly injured," he added as he crossed his arms over his chest, "What's going on?"

The two soldiers looked at each other, suspicion in their eyes. England noted with a sinking feeling how the man with the paper was slowly reaching for the gun in his holster.

"Hold on, now," England cautioned, raising his hands in surrender, "He and I were supposed to have a meeting this morning and I came over here to see what the holdup was," he explained as calmly as he could manage, "I found him lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood," he added grimly. The soldiers frowned at him, skeptical.

"Where is he now?" the paperless man demanded.

"Asleep, on the couch," England responded nervously. He jumped as the other soldier pointed his gun at England's face, "Whoa...steady, now, gentlemen-"

"What did you do to him?" the man growled, preparing the handgun to fire with a click, "Get out here, you limey bastard,"

England scowled at him, raised his hands above his head, and marched outside. Why did everyone call him that? It wasn't _his_ fault that everybody else's navy had scurvy.

"If you'd just look inside the house-!" England was abruptly cut off by the feeling of metal on the square of his back.

"Keep movin,'" the soldier warned, shoving him forward. England stumbled a bit, but quickly regained his composure.

"Listen, I know what you must be thinking-" England reasoned as the man led him up the walkway away from America's house.

"Guys, it's okay," a soft voice said from behind him. England spun around; America was standing in the doorway, if you could call it standing. More like clinging for dear life onto the doorframe. He was still worriedly pale, and England was pretty sure he was shivering.

"Alfred!" England shouted before he could stop himself, dashing past the soldiers and grabbing America by the arm. Yep, he definitely was shivering.

"Come on, you need to lie down," he ordered worriedly. That's when he felt the gun at his back again and froze in-place.

"Hey!" America snapped, glaring at the man behind England angrily, "Knock it off," he growled, staring the soldiers down, "Come in and we'll talk," he stated, gesturing weakly toward the living room.

"Y-yes, Sir," they muttered as the one guy put his gun away (finally). England made certain to throw a glare behind him before leading America back into his living room. The other nation didn't resist his help, which worried him. America sank heavily into his armchair, trying to look as dignified as he could manage while shirtless and covered in gauze.

"All right, what's going on?" America asked coolly as the soldiers awkwardly shuffled into the room. England turned to leave, nodding at the two men as he passed them. Best not to interfere in America's affairs, after all-

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" America teased, "I'm not kicking you out,"

"Yes, well, this is your business, and I don't want to look like I'm interfering or anything-" England protested, but America cut him off with a slight shake of his head.

"Interfering?" America blurted with a wheeze, "Not after you saved my ass, you're not," he added, looking at his soldiers pointedly, "Siddown, England,"

England stared at him for a moment before doing as America said, sitting on the couch beside the numerous blankets which were once America's cocoon. He must be delirious or something, to say something like that. Oh, God, was he running a fever? England made a mental note to check once they were alone.

"What the hell's going on out there?" America demanded, pointing to the bandages on his abdomen, "Look at me!" he cried in disdain, "If it weren't for England I might've died!"

The soldiers looked uncomfortable, alternating between looking at him and the floor.

"For you, Sir," the trigger-happy soldier stated as he handed America the paper from earlier.

"I don't have my glasses on," America mumbled as he squinted at the document. England considered fetching them for him, but decided against it. Best to not make any sudden moves.

"We're at war, Sir," the other soldier said quietly, "Fort Sumter fell to the Confederates,"

The tension in the room was palpable. England looked down at the floor, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach. That explained everything. He shuddered involuntarily, recalling the numerous scars he had accrued throughout the centuries when his people went to war, crisscrossing over his body as a reminder of what he hoped the citizens of the United Kingdom would never repeat. He had wanted to spare America such a fate, but it was unavoidable. This would leave a very ugly scar, England noted with a cringe. North and South. The war which would split Alfred's nation in half and, ultimately, him.

He peered up at his little brother, who looked grave. He wasn't stunned...more like disappointed.

"When did this happen?" America asked quietly.

"We came to you as soon as we received the message, Sir," one of the soldiers explained, " President Lincoln is already meeting with his war council as we speak,"

"Good," America breathed, rubbing his eyes, "All right, just...keep me posted, okay? Looks like I'm gonna be useless for a while until I get better," he added bitterly.

"Yes, Sir," the soldiers stated as they saluted and walked out of the room. England waited until he heard the front door close behind them before speaking.

"I'm sorry, America," he said, rising from his seat and retrieving the blankets from the couch, "You need to keep warm," he nagged as he draped them across America's shoulders.

"God, Arthur," America sighed, putting his face in his hands, "I was afraid of this happening, but...oh, God..." he trailed off as his voice cracked.

England sighed, putting his hand on America's trembling shoulder and kneeling next to the armchair. He was terrible at this sort of thing, he noted vaguely as his brother looked up at him. He wasn't crying, but seemed close to it.

"You never thought it would actually happen," England finished for him. America closed his eyes and rubbed his temples tiredly.

"Pretty much," he answered quietly.

"It's a terrible thing," England admitted, "I've had similar happen to myself, so I know how painful it is,"

"Yeah?" America sniffed.

"Yeah," England answered, "And it never gets any easier. But," he added pointedly, making America look back at him again, "You are a strong and mighty country, America, and you _will _survive this,"

America snorted, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling.

"What, you don't believe me?" England asked flatly as he stood up. America looked up at him, lips curled into a wry smile.

"No, I believe you," America conceded, looking up at the ceiling again thoughtfully, "It just...hurts, knowing that they're doing this to themselves. Like I..." he paused , looking for the right word.

"Failed them?" England offered. America raised his head, staring up at England intensely.

"...did I?" he breathed.

England hesitated, taking his turn at looking up at the ceiling.

"I don't think it would matter what you did, honestly," he reasoned, crossing his arms, "Humans will be humans, and they love to fight. They will always fight-and kill-one another. Even if you take away the reasons for war, they'll come up with something else to kill each other over," he said, looking back down at America with a bitter grin, "I thought I'd learned that the hard way a long time ago, but..." he trailed off with a shrug, "Humans will be humans,"

America grinned weakly, nodding.

"Yeah, I guess that's true," he said quietly, "Thanks,"

England nodded, reaching over and putting his hand on America's forehead.

"What're you doing?" America demanded with a frown.

"Checking to see if you're feverish," England answered, "Although you appear to be just the opposite right now," he noted with a worried frown. Damned soldiers. His temperature had been improving until those idiots made him come crawling outside.

"I am kinda cold," America admitted, shuddering.

"All right, back onto the couch," England ordered, "I think you'll do better lying down than sitting for right now,"

"What, I can't just sit?" America retorted as England helped him hobble his way over to the sofa. Again, he didn't resist, "I'm not an invalid, you know," he pointed out as England gently helped him stretch out onto the couch and tucked the blankets securely around him.

"No, but you do need to rest," England pointed out, "I'm going to work on making you something hot, maybe get some broth in you or something,"

"Can you make me some coffee?" America asked.

"Uh..." England stammered, mind racing. He HATED coffee, let alone knew how to make the disgusting stuff. But, considering the situation...

"S-sure!" he said, patting America's shoulder, "I'll get a fresh pot of coffee on, right away!" he answered cheerily.

"Thanks, man," America said groggily as his eyes began to close on him. He was fighting to keep them open, England noted, but was losing.

"Get some rest, Alfred," England advised, "Coffee'll be ready when you wake up,"

England smiled as he got a jumbled mix of syllables as an answer. He headed into the kitchen, steeling himself. He was going to make America better, damn it, and he was going to make him the best pot of coffee ever.

* * *

**This is my first fanfiction, so I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I didn't want to divide this chapter up for better flow, but maybe it's too long? ****hahaha oh man...pl****ease be nice in the comments.  
**

**The story is supposed to take place in April of 1861, after the Battle of Fort Sumter that officially got the American Civil War started. Poor Alfred.**

**England's comment on scurvy comes from why American sailors referred to British ones as "limey." British sailors would drink rations of yucky watered-down rum with lime/lemon juice added in it so it would taste better and they'd drink it. As a plus, this gave them the vitamin C they needed so they didn't end up with scurvy, which many sailors were wont to suffer from at sea. History! Love how this phrase is used in the anime as well. **

**I hope this story isn't too mushy, but I love big brother England looking out for America. It's so cute.**


	3. Chapter 3

England groaned in dismay as the "coffee" slowly oozed into the awaiting mug with a loud plop. It was more like molasses than anything else. Burnt, horrible-smelling molasses, with a slight hint of something akin to burning flesh. Delicious.

"Ugh," he blanched, throwing open the kitchen window and dumping the awful stuff out of it. That was his third attempt, unfortunately, and still wasn't getting any better. He set the coffee pot down on the countertop, defeated. He began rummaging through the cupboards, frantically looking for something else that would substitute as a hot beverage.

"Come on," he muttered as he shoved aside some expensive-looking China. Must be for special occasions or something, seeing as they were coated with a fine layer of dust-

England's face lit up as his hand grazed a dusty metal tin.

"No way," he blurted as he removed the tin from the cabinet. He blew the dust off and opened the lid-sure enough, the inside of the tin was lined with small satchels of tea. England smiled, finding himself getting a little misty-eyed. Alfred had actually kept his old tea tin, after all of these years. And, he noted happily, he kept it restocked...or at least, he had at some point that was fairly recent.

"All right, now we're talking," he said happily to himself as he began preparing two cups of tea.

* * *

America smiled as he stood in the field, watching the amber waves of grain rise and fall across the plains. He leaned into the wind as it swept across the field and tossed his hair around. He spread his arms, looking up at the clear blue sky and laughing. He felt at home here. At peace. Surrounded by vast wilderness, filled to the brim with opportunity.

He looked to his left as a sound caught his attention. A wild bison had approached, tossing its mighty head as it grazed. America grinned, putting his hands into his pockets and watching the creature for a few moments. An eagle shrieked and grazed his head, taking off into the brilliant blue. America followed it with his gaze, shielding his eyes as it passed the sun.

He jumped as a loud boom resounded through the air and shattered the serene silence.

"What?" he blurted, spinning around. He hit the ground as a cannonball came speeding toward him, landing on the ground behind him with a loud thud. He scrambled to his feet, looking around. Three men rushed past him, wearing navy blue uniforms and shouting. All of them were carrying weapons.

"W-wait!" he cried as he chased after them. He stumbled over something and ended up on all fours. He turned to look at what had tripped him and froze. The sightless gaze of the dead soldier leered up at him, chest split open and its contents seeping into his uniform. America looked down; he was wearing the same navy blue as the soldiers darting past, the same as the man lying dead on the ground.

"ATTACK!" someone cried, and America stepped backward as a crowd of blue-clad men came storming down the hill, darting toward him with bayonets drawn. He expected them to run directly past him, but they didn't. They were...aiming at him?

"Hey!" he shouted, throwing his hands into the air, "S-stop! I'M ON YOUR SIDE!" he cried, turning and breaking into a run. He stumbled and realized with a jolt that his uniform was no longer navy blue, but gray.

"What?!" he blurted as he ran toward a line of approaching gray-clad soldiers. They too were charging with weapons drawn, shouting wordlessly as they approached. America stopped dead, turning and finding himself surrounded by blue on one side, gray on the other, and nowhere to run.

"NO!" he cried as he spun around, "STOP! I'M YOU! I'M YOU!"

* * *

England nearly dropped the tray of tea and soup in his haste to dash into the living room. America was screaming bloody murder, thrashing about on the couch. He ran to the other nation's side worriedly.

"Alfred?!" he asked, dodging one of America's flailing arms and grabbing onto it, "Alfred, WAKE UP," he commanded as he tried to grab hold of the other arm. Unfortunately, he didn't get to it on time and America managed to land a hit.

"Oof!" England wheezed as his brother's elbow slammed him in-between his ribs. He saw stars for a moment; he had almost forgotten how strong Alfred was.

"I'M ON YOUR SIDE!" Alfred cried, kicking his feet from beneath the blankets. England swore and hopped awkwardly on top of the other nation, keeping his legs contained as he tried to wake him up.

"HEY!" England shouted into Alfred's ear as he grabbed at the man's free arm, "YOU'RE DREAMING-WAKE UP,"

"I'M YOU! I'M YOU!" America sobbed, "I'm..."

"...Alfred?" England asked as America suddenly went limp. He took the opportunity to secure Alfred's other arm as he looked him over worriedly. He appeared to be asleep now, although there were tears running down his face.

"Oh, Alfred, I'm sorry," England sighed. He was certain he knew what this nightmare had been about; "I'm you" left little room for speculation. Wars were horribly taxing for nations, not just physically-England understood that all too well.

He jumped as Alfred started whimpering. He frowned, letting go of Alfred's wrists and starting to get off of the couch. It was difficult for him to watch, seeing his brother like this-

He yelped as Alfred's arms abruptly grabbed his waist and pulled England on top of him. England resisted, cursing under his breath, but it was no use. America just tightened his grip, drawing England's face into his shoulder. England felt himself blushing, but tried his best to ignore it.

"Erm...Alfred?" he mumbled into America's neck.

"Hmm?" Alfred sighed.

"Could you, uh, let go of me?" England asked.

"Warm," America stated matter-of-factly. He didn't loosen his grip, either.

"Come on, let me up," England huffed as he pushed off of America's chest. America responded by hugging him even harder. "This is MOST UNDIGNIFIED!" he shouted angrily.

"_Warm_," America growled, tightening his grip on England possessively.

"Oh come on, you'd be just as warm if you'd stop kicking off your bloody blankets!" England stated flatly. When all he got was a soft snore in response, he resumed struggling. After a few attempts, he gave up.

"Pain in the ass," England hissed into America's shoulder, defeated. Plus, the soup and tea were going to get cold. All that effort, gone to waste. Well, maybe not entirely, he reasoned...he could always just heat them back up again.

He smiled a little as America mumbled in his sleep. He certainly seemed calmer now, that was for sure. If this is what it took to keep him from thrashing around and hurting himself, so be it. He resigned himself to being America's captive for the time being and closed his eyes. He was bloody exhausted. It probably wouldn't be long before Alfred woke up, anyhow, demanding to be fed like he had when he was a child. He listened to America's breathing, the only sound save for the ticking of his grandfather clock on the other side of the room.

* * *

America slowly pried one eye open, then the other. Where was he, again? The grandfather clock in the room ticked loudly as if scolding him.

"Oh, that's right," he muttered to himself as he recalled the events from that morning. He sighed, reaching up and running his hand through his hair. He felt better than he had when two of his soldiers had shown up, and considerably less cold. He jumped as an irritated mumble met his ears.

"Huh?" he blurted, looking down at where he lay on the couch. England was lying on top of him, his face nestled into his shoulder. He must have jostled him when he moved his arm just now. Weird. Closeness wasn't exactly Arthur's thing, let alone snuggling on a couch with someone. What was weirder was that America's own arm was on top of the other nation, keeping him firmly in-place.

"Arthur?" he asked softly, shifting in an attempt to get a look at the other nation's face.

"America, go to sleep," Arthur mumbled sleepily. America chuckled; he wasn't quite sure how he had ended up on the couch with him, but America was glad he was there. He must have nodded off after America grabbed him in his sleep or something-he had done that quite a few times to England as a child, though he hated to admit it.

"Hey, Arthur?" America whispered.

"Mmm? What?" Arthur yawned.

"Thanks," Alfred said with a smile.

"You're welcome, Alfred," England responded drowsily, shifting and nuzzling his face into America's shoulder.

America waited with a smirk on his face. It usually took a few minutes for Arthur to wake up in the morning, he recalled. His reaction times weren't always the best...

"Hey, Arthur?" America whispered again.

"What?" Arthur whispered back.

"You're pretty damn comfy, you know that?" America teased, "Nice n' warm,"

"Mm-hmm, yes, quite," Arthur muttered. America counted three seconds going by before he felt England's eyelashes flutter against his chest. The other nation sat bolt upright, staring at America as if horrified.

"Hi!" America greeted with a grin.

"Erm, uh...hi," England spluttered as he turned beet red and practically leapt off of the couch, "You were having a nightmare, so..."

"Oh," America frowned, turning away in shame. That was right...another damned nightmare, only this time his own people were killing each other-

Only, it wasn't actually a nightmare, was it?

"Don't worry about it, Alfred," England reassured him as he headed toward the kitchen, "You hungry? I made some soup," he added.

"Y-yeah, that sounds good," America answered.


	4. Chapter 4

"How's your back?" Arthur called as he walked in from the other room, "I had to reheat everything, so it's all kind of hot," he added as he sat down in the armchair across from America.

"It's all right," America lied. Truth be told, it hurt like a sonofabitch every time he moved.

"All right?" Arthur pried, cocking an eyebrow at him. America cringed; he had never been good at lying, especially to Arthur.

"Well, you know, it's fine," America insisted, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, "Yep, you fixed me right up, man! I'll be good as new in-"

"Liar," Arthur accused. America stared at him, suddenly feeling like he was a little kid again. Arthur peered at him from beneath his intense eyebrows, frowning.

"N-no I'm not!" America whined, "It's getting better! Really!"

"Sure it is," Arthur said flatly, "Can you sit up? _Slowly_," he cautioned.

"Course I can!" America scoffed as he hurriedly pushed off of his elbows, "See-OW!" he cried as searing pain shot up his spine and into the back of his head. He sank back onto the couch and waited for the room to stop spinning.

"Damn it, I said 'slowly'!" Arthur hissed, reaching out and cupping the back of America's head to support it, "Are you all right?"

"Peachy," America growled.

"Okay, I'm going to try to prop you up with a cushion," Arthur explained, "You'll get a stiff neck if you stay like that," he scolded.

"'kay," America managed. His back was throbbing angrily at him, pulsing with every beat of his heart. He wanted to scream, but resisted.

"Ready?" Arthur asked, looking at America apprehensively.

"Yeah," America grunted, steeling himself. The pain wasn't quite as bad as he had feared, but it was close. He bit down hard on his lower lip as Arthur cautiously shifted him so his head and back were propped up on a pillow from the armchair.

"There. How's that?" Arthur asked.

"Great," America answered, grateful that he was through trying to move him, "Thanks,"

"Feel like some soup?" Arthur asked.

"Sure," America said, managing a weak smile, "Oh, hey-could you get my glasses? I feel weird without them," he added awkwardly.

"Sure, I'll fetch them," Arthur said as he headed toward the kitchen. He returned with America's glasses and a steaming bowl of...something. Whatever it was, there were definitely vegetables lurking around in there. _Ugh._ America grimaced; England's cuisine wasn't by any means the best, but at least he wasn't trying to feed him scones.

"Here we are: nice, hot soup," Arthur declared as he pulled the cushion-less armchair over and sat next to the couch, "It's pretty hot, so you might have to blow on it first," he warned.

"Okay, thanks," America responded, reaching out to take the bowl from England and failing. His hands shook violently. "Whoa," he blurted as he hurriedly let his arms fall limp at his sides. That...wasn't normal. He tried again, only to repeat the previous attempt. He sighed, running his quivering hands through his unkempt hair.

"Let me do it," Arthur offered.

"No," America said stubbornly, "I'm going to do it,"

"I don't mind, you know-"

"I_ said_ I'll do it," America growled, setting his jaw and taking the spoon from Arthur. His hand quaked, but he managed to hold onto it. He made an attempt to grab the soup bowl next, which was perched upon a saucer he didn't recall owning. Maybe Arthur had been going through his cabinets or something.

Arthur, for his part, stayed silent. America had been fully expecting a lecture of some kind by now, and the absence of England's scolding worried him a little. He stole a look at the other nation; Arthur's face was set in an expression America couldn't quite read...was it pity? Oh, God, please don't let him be in that bad of a shape. He snapped his focus back onto the soup bowl, reaching out and grasping the edge of the saucer. His hands shook violently, causing soup to slop over the sides of the bowl and onto Alfred's wrist.

"OW! GOD DAMN IT!" America shouted as he recoiled his hand. Thankfully, Arthur hadn't actually let go of the soup saucer. He quietly placed it on the coffee table beside the couch, reaching out toward America.

"Let me see it," he said quietly.

"No," America huffed, curling his burnt hand into his chest, "Just...leave me alone," he whispered, turning his focus onto the back of the couch. He stared into the cushions, feeling heat rising in his face, into his eyes and spilling out onto his cheeks. He was pathetic. Crippled, mortally wounded, and unable to even feed himself.

He jumped as a hand gently took his injured wrist and held it aloft.

"Just a little burn, nothing too major," Arthur observed as he turned his hand over to assess the damage. America wanted to wrench his arm from the other man's grasp, but lacked the strength. Plus, he also happened to be crying like a little bitch at the moment, so the less he had to say, the better.

"I should have probably not made it so hot," Arthur admitted as he let America's arm sink back on top of his abdomen.

America didn't respond. He was too busy trying to get the tears to stop. They cascaded from his eyes in fat plops, running down his face and spotting his glasses. What was wrong with him?

"You know, there was a time where France had to take care of me like this," Arthur said suddenly. That got America's attention.

"W-what?" he stammered, sniffling.

"It's true," Arthur said. America briefly considered turning to look at the other nation just out of sheer curiosity, but decided against it.

"I couldn't even manage to stand up, I was in such bad shape," Arthur continued, "Cromwell and his boys really left a mark,"

"So...France?" America pried, eager to hear more and at the same time horrified at what he might hear. The Frenchman was anything but a gentlemen when it came to other countries being vulnerable.

Arthur paused as if thinking the same thing, then drew a deep breath and continued.

"Well, as stupid as this might sound, I..." he hesitated, sighing, "I was actually at a meeting with France at the time, and I guess I just kind of...fell over,"

America couldn't resist turning around after that statement. Arthur looked surprised at the tears on his face, but didn't comment on them.

"Fell over?" America repeated, "What, you fainted?"

"It's called 'collapsing,' you git," Arthur hissed angrily, frowning at him.

"Yeah...you totally fainted," America teased.

"No I didn't!" Arthur snapped, crossing his arms and staring off to the side, "Do you want to hear this stupid story or not?"

"Hell yes I do!" America answered enthusiastically, "So what happened?"

Arthur shrugged, stealing a look back at America.

"The next thing I knew, I was back in my house, lying in my own bed. France stayed with me until I was well again," he continued, "But it was a while," he added.

"How long is a while?" America asked, intrigued.

"Too long, sharing a house with that frog," Arthur sighed, "But he did help get me back on my feet. I don't know how I would have managed without him, unfortunately-do not EVER repeat that," he warned with a dangerous glare, "Got it?"

"Uh-huh," America said, making a mental note to tell Canada about this later on, "So he just...bummed around your house?"

"No, he actually was quite helpful," Arthur mused, looking up at the ceiling as he spoke, "He took care of my meals, and helped me hobble around and such,"

"Did he...?" America pried.

"NO, thank God," Arthur said, looking back down at him, "No, thankfully I was injured too severely for him to try anything. Heh, even my hair hurt, the pain was so bad,"

"Maybe that was a good thing," America laughed.

"It_ definitely_ was," Arthur said with a shudder, "I kicked his ass out of my house after I was well enough before he had time to pounce, but you get the idea. We have to stick together in times like these, us countries," he continued, waving his hand to emphasize his point, "We take care of each other,"

America was stunned into silence for once, blinking at Arthur in shock. Arthur threw him a cockeyed grin and retrieved the soup from the coffee table.

"Now, then: how about some lunch?" he said kindly.

America listened to more of his stories as he begrudgingly allowed Arthur to spoon feed him, everything from how he had witnessed the signing of the Magna Carta to when he destroyed Spain's Armada. By the time the bowl was empty, America was feeling warm and full.

"Tea?" Arthur offered.

"Ew, no," America said, wrinkling his nose.

"Come on, it's good for you," Arthur pressed, "It's the best thing for when you're ill,"

"...fine," America conceded, sensing he was fighting a losing battle. He slurped tea from the teacup Arthur held up to his mouth, trying not to gag. God, that stuff was disgusting.

"Where'd you get this, anyway?" America asked after he was halfway through with drinking the foul liquid, "Did you bring it in your suitcase or something?" he teased.

"No, it was in your cupboard," Arthur answered matter-of-factly as he offered the cup to him again. America declined with a shake of his head.

"Naw, man, I'm full," he sighed, "You keep that up and all I'm gonna do is pee,"

Arthur chuckled and set his teacup down on the coffee table.

"You seem more like yourself," he pointed out as he grabbed another cup of tea and started sipping it, "Your color is certainly more promising,"

"Yeah, I'm okay," America said, "My back still hurts, but...that'll stop eventually," he said as if trying to convince himself. Arthur didn't answer, but took a long dreg from his teacup instead.

"What time is it?" America yawned. Arthur craned his neck to look at the grandfather clock.

"Nine twenty-three," he answered.

"Huh?" America blurted, "I slept all day long?"

"Well, you needed the rest," Arthur reasoned as he took another sip of tea which, America noted, must have certainly gone cold by now.

"Yeah, but you must be pretty wiped out," America pointed out.

"I'm fine," Arthur insisted as he suppressed a yawn-poorly. America raised an eyebrow at him.

"You need to get some sleep, though," America said sternly.

"I will, I will," Arthur said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He rose and put the back of his hand to America's forehead, "Your temperature is much better," he praised. America felt himself blush, embarrassed.

"Great," he mumbled.

"You focus on getting better-I'll take care of things here," Arthur said hurriedly has he picked up the dishes and raced toward the kitchen.

"...huh?" America managed as Arthur disappeared into the other room. He listened to the sound of plates clinking...was he washing dishes? Really?

Still, he reasoned as he felt himself starting to drift off again, it was nice to have Arthur around. He hated being alone, and...honestly, if someone absolutely had to see him like this, he wouldn't have wanted it to be anyone else.

He awoke to the feeling of a blanket being draped over his exposed arms and chest.

"Mmmf..." he mumbled, cracking his eyes open. Things were a little blurry; he guessed his glasses had been removed. Arthur was hovering over him, tucking the blanket around Alfred's body on the couch.

"Ssh," Arthur soothed, "Go to sleep,"

America didn't argue.


	5. Chapter 5

The next time he woke up, it was dark. He cautiously turned his head; there was definitely a moon out, judging by the dim light streaming in through the living room window. America peered up at Arthur's sleeping figure slumped in the chair beside him and felt a pang of guilt. If it weren't for him being so damned pathetic, the other nation wouldn't have to be spending the night in a cushion-less armchair. He succumbed to sleep fairly soon after that, and didn't wake until the sun was streaming into the living room the next morning.

"Morning?" he mumbled to himself as he rubbed his eyes. He held his arms aloft-they still shook, but not as violently as yesterday. He turned toward the armchair-Arthur was still sound asleep, snoring softly. As if sensing someone was staring at him, his emerald eyes sprang open.

"Oh, good morning," he greeted groggily, stretching.

"G'morning," America answered, "Did you..spend all night in that chair?"

"I think so, yes," Arthur responded sarcastically.

"I'm serious," America warned, "That's ridiculous,"

"Well, it's what I'm doing, so there," Arthur answered as he rose from his seat and clapped a hand to America's forehead, "Still good," he noted.

"But-"

"I'm fine, Alfred, really!" Arthur insisted, "How about some breakfast? But then I have to change your bandages," he added.

"Fine," Alfred grumbled, "But breakfast sounds good,"

"Coming right up," Arthur said with a smile.

* * *

Several weeks passed, and America had insisted that he be allowed to move into a proper bedroom rather than camping out on the couch. England reluctantly agreed and allowed him to hobble his way into one of the guest rooms on the first floor. Today had been particularly trying...an all-out battle must have taken place-a big one. America couldn't hold back from screaming as the wound in his back was violently torn open, starting at the middle of his back and arcing down. It had been all England could do to subdue him, patting his hair gently and murmuring soothing phrases of encouragement as he writhed in agony. England had stitched him up again, but America feared it was only a matter of time before it happened again. Soldiers came in from time to time, bearing news and bringing food and medical supplies England had requested, but the overall feeling was that the war was far from over.

Exhausted from screaming, America had fallen into a shallow sleep that afternoon. England was at his side, applying a cool washcloth to his sweaty face as he lay sprawled on his stomach. The older nation had given him painkillers to help take the edge off, but it did little for the stabbing, angry pain shooting up his spine. America emerged from his sleep once again, looking over at England tiredly.

"Man, Arthur, how did you do this?" he asked weakly.

"You'll get through it," Arthur insisted, folding the cloth over and repositioning it on the back of Alfred's neck, "You're stronger than any other nation I've known,"

"But it _hurts_," Alfred hissed, "It feels like I'm being ripped in half,"

Arthur bit his lip as if uncertain of what to say. He sat down on the edge of America's bed and began smoothing his hair. America's eyes fell closed; this is what England used to do when he was a kid, when he was afraid of the ghosts in his room or had a nightmare. The familiarity of the gesture comforted him a little, and he managed a weak smile before falling back into a restless slumber.

By the time he woke again, it was night time once more. This had been the routine for the past several weeks: America waking up with Arthur diligently slumped in the chair at his bedside, nodding off. America frowned, noting how the pain had calmed down. Hopefully his people were through slaughtering one another for a while. Which, he noted happily, gave him time to focus on his guest.

"Hey, Arthur?" America called.

"Hmm?" Arthur mumbled, then snapped awake, "What is it?" he asked worriedly, getting up.

"Lie down, would ya?" America asked, scooting over to make room on the mattress.

"What?" Arthur asked, "No, I'm fine in my chair,"

"Shut up and lie down," America snapped, in no mood for this nonsense. He could see the dark circles forming under the other nation's eyes as of late, and he was sick of feeling guilty over it.

"Really, Alfred, I'm-"

"NOW," America practically shouted, "Get some actual rest for once, will ya?"

The other nation hesitated, looking over America warily.

"Look, you refuse to leave my side, so you might as well get comfy," America reasoned, "Now get in,"

"Fine," Arthur sighed after a few awkward moments, "But if you kick me I swear I'll knock your bloody teeth out," he warned.

"Right," America laughed as the other nation carefully climbed beneath the blankets and stretched out. He sighed happily as his head touched the pillow.

"Feels good, right?" America asked, "I don't know how you've been camping out in a chair for like, three months. You're crazy,"

"You're welcome," Arthur said flatly.

"But seriously, though..." America trailed off, searching for the right words.

"Don't worry about it," Arthur yawned, "Good-night,"

"Good-night," America answered, closing his eyes. Arthur fell asleep almost immediately after that, snoring a little. America grinned and shut his eyes, content. The war may be raging outside of his house, but it was peaceful here, and America couldn't ask for a more gracious caretaker than the man beside him.

"Thanks, Arthur," he whispered before falling asleep.

* * *

**^_^ Oh the sappy cuteness! **

**Thanks to whoever took the time to read.**


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